Five Things John Stole, and the One He Gave Back
by VintageVictorian
Summary: Prompt fill ending in slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Prompt fill from SherlockBBC_fic, in which our characters' possessions start disappearing.**

1. Sergeant Donovan's Identification**  
**

The body of victim Matilda Briggs lay ten feet away, gnawed into tatters by a most unusual animal, and all John could think about was Sergeant Donovan. John had had quite enough of hearing her calling Sherlock a freak.

It was grating, the way she worked it anew into every conversation. John wished he could be as uncaring as Sherlock: ignore the insult and objectively appreciate the skill with which she flung the word into his friend's face.

Knowing that Sherlock was impervious to the barrage was cold comfort. He simply went about his business as if the slurs were never spoken. In fact, at times Sherlock acted as if Donovan didn't exist: he was currently occupied with his mobile and scrolling through internet descriptions of rat species native to Sumatra. It didn't seem to matter to him, but John wanted to take him by the shoulders and shout, "It _does_ matter. Don't let her treat you this way! You're amazing and she should appreciate your brilliance, they all should!"

He recalled Sherlock saying once, in reference to Lestrade: _"I pickpocket him when he's annoying."_

It gave John an idea... he wasn't adept at pickpocketing, had never even tried it before to be honest, but he resolved to one day ruin Donovan's day by stealing her identification.

The opportunity arrived two weeks later. He and Sherlock were at the police station consulting with Lestrade and Donovan. John noticed Donovan's coat draped over her desk chair. Pretending to pick up something he dropped, he filched the wallet from her coat pocket.

John was giddy as he and Sherlock left the station. Sherlock detected the altered mood, of course, and gave John calculating looks. Over dinner at Angelo's (where he had long ago made peace with the inevitable romantic candle), John's adrenaline rush dwindled. He began to feel he had made a dreadful mistake. He realized the severity of his theft and decided to confess.

"Sherlock, I... I think I've done something very stupid." He pulled the wallet out of his pocket and passed it over.

"What is this?" Sherlock opened the wallet, curiosity giving way to delight when he saw the identification. "No, it can't be... John, what have you done?"

"I've committed a serious crime!" John hissed.

"That much is obvious. " Sherlock absently turned the wallet over in his hands, processing. Another piercing look. "Somehow I never get your limits. What could Donovan possibly have done to drive my moral compass to such uncharacteristic behavior?"

John preferred to not explain his reasons; they suddenly seemed very complicated. Instead, he asked, "What do I do now? I can't just give it back."

"Give it back? Never. We'll add it to the collection of Lestrade's I have at home. It will occupy a place of honour." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But let's not make this a habit. I refuse to be responsible for the corruption of a good, honest man like yourself. After all, we can't both be sociopaths."

Observing the worry lines lingering on John's face, he added, "Oh, calm down. They'll probably blame me when she notices it's missing, anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

2. Mrs. Hudson's Herbal Soothers

"Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen, staring into the cupboard. "Did you move the tea? I can't seem to find any."

"The tea... Yes, I did move the tea. It's out here," Sherlock responded from the sitting room.

John peered from the doorway. Sherlock was at the desk, surrounded by a confusion of lab pyrex and testing equipment. John groaned when he spied the contents of all four boxes of their tea, opened and spilt, leaves strewn about, which had previously been stored in their cupboard.

"So. What is it today?" John asked with a touch of annoyance.

"I'm running tests on the amount of catechins in different varieties of _Camellia Sinensis_, based on origin and oxidation."

"And these tests required all of our tea?"

"Hmm, I'm afraid so." Sherlock didn't even look up. He counted out drops of liquid into a test tube.

"Wait, that's my Darjeeling, isn't it? I just bought that two days ago!"

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock said, distracted. "I required a specimen comprised of black, green, and oolong."

"And what am I supposed to do for tea, now that you've gone and ruined our entire supply?"

Sherlock set down the test tube and pipette and finally made eye contact with John. "It hardly takes genius to answer that question. Why don't you stop sulking and ask Mrs. Hudson for some? I'm sure she could spare us enough until we go marketing again."

"You mean when I go marketing again," John muttered. He heard Sherlock call after him as he started downstairs:

"I wouldn't mind a cup myself, while you're at it."

He found Mrs. Hudson on her way out the front door. "Oh, certainly, love," she replied when John explained his predicament. "The tea's in the canister on the kitchen counter. Help yourself, the door's open."

In Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, John discovered two similar canisters containing tea leaves. He sniffed at both, trying to discern the differences between the two, and chose one. Back upstairs he brewed two cups and placed one on the desk within Sherlock's reach. John then settled into his chair with a book from Sherlock's shelf.

Noting the unusual flavor of the tea, John finished it and prepared another cup. Some time after drinking the second cup, he began to feel odd. He started experiencing strange bodily sensations. First his mouth went dry. Then he felt a wave of relaxation marked by sporadic muscle twitches. He was increasingly unable to focus on the book he was holding; however, one passage struck him as extremely humorous and he began to laugh.

When John's laughter became prolonged, Sherlock looked up from his work. "What is so funny?"

"This book... about trees..." John managed between titters.

Sherlock squinted to read the title: "_The Origin of Tree Worship_. Whatever is so funny about that?"

John couldn't speak from the convulsive laughter. The book fell from his hands and hit the floor.

Sherlock laid aside his tea experiment and went over to John. He tugged at John's eyelid, inspected the bloodshot corneas. "Remarkable." He turned around to look at his own nearly-untouched cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea; he had taken only a few sips and then forgotten all about it. He shook his head.

"Well, I'm going to have to perform a chemical analysis to be sure, but as I've always suspected... certain psychoactive properties... And you do take a significant amount of milk in your tea as a rule; that would increase the effect..." he mused.

John burst into uncontrollable giggles. "Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers! The great mystery of Baker Street is solved! It's a drugs bust, after all!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and exhaled noisily. "John, I think it would be best if you just go upstairs for the rest of the afternoon. And by all means, take the crisps and biscuits with you. You'll be wanting them."


	3. Chapter 3

3. Mycroft's Umbrella

John frantically hailed a cab but, like the two before it, the car drove past him. He struggled with three totes of groceries, it was cold and raining, and his leg was starting to bother him. Damn this leg, he thought, mightily embarrassed that it was psychosomatic and yet truly painful at times. He set his jaw against his misery, mentally cursed Sherlock for never buying the groceries, and continued walking home.

He became aware of a familiar black sedan drawing near. John ignored it, eyes forward. The rear window rolled down.

"Not exactly a lovely day for a walk, Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes called out. "It's so difficult to get a cab in this city sometimes. Allow me to escort you home in a more hospitable environment."

"No thank you," John responded. He didn't stop.

The car pulled forward, then came to a stop at the kerb. The driver exited. He opened the rear door and waited expectantly.

John sighed. He didn't even get a choice these days. Resigned, he entered the vehicle. He felt damp and bedraggled compared to Mycroft, who as always, was dry and perfectly composed next to him. What was it about the Holmeses that made them so fastidious, so effortlessly vain, about their appearances?

The driver steered the car up Baker Street.

"I see my brother is not keeping up his end of the flatshare arrangement," Mycroft pronounced, looking at the grocery totes. "That's the fourth time this month you've done the marketing."

For all of John's previous anger and muttered curses, he immediately rose to Sherlock's defence. "He's been busy on several cases, hasn't had time. Besides, we don't keep track of things like that."

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. "That may be, but it's hardly fair to expect you to cover so much of the living expenses. I'm sure you're aware by now that I handle some of my brother's finances. I'd be happy to make a deposit into your account on a regular basis, to cover the cost of your... inconveniences."

John saw through the ruse. It was another way of Mycroft trying to buy inside information on Sherlock. He managed his temper.

"That won't be necessary. It wasn't necessary the last time you asked me, or the time before that. I'm not turning police informant on my flatmate."

"Come, Dr. Watson," Mycroft chided. "Let's be reasonable. Life with Sherlock can't be easy. It's only fair that you be compensated for your infinite pains and patience. There's no need for you to suffer my brother's social inadequacies."

"Might as well," John retorted, "since I'm suffering yours. Driver, let me out, please. I'll walk from here."

Questioning eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. After a pause, Mycroft nodded. The car pulled over.

"Obviously Sherlock has brainwashed you into thinking I'm the enemy. It's quite regrettable, you know."

John gathered the shopping bags. "You know what's regrettable? The fact that Sherlock is related to a.. a... _bureaucratic mastermind, _when what he really needs is a brother. Why can't you just be that for him?" He reached over the front seat to snatch Mycroft's umbrella. "I'm taking this, by the way."

He got out of the car, shut the door a bit more firmly than required. The window glided down once more. Mycroft's parting shot: "Sherlock and I might not be much in the way of fraternal love, but it appears he finally has a friend. Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Watson?"

John opened the umbrella and headed home. He thought about how aspects of his life had become so maddening, and yet so _interesting,_ with Sherlock Holmes in it.


	4. Chapter 4

4. Sherlock's Scarf

John reached out and touched the steel blue scarf, fingering the fabric. Cashmere, as he had suspected, given Sherlock's taste in fine clothing.

John looked at his friend who was splayed across the sofa fast asleep. Thoroughly exhausted from an intense all-night quest for London's current most wanted criminal, Sherlock had crept into the sitting room at dawn. John, on the other hand, had spent a fretful night in his chair. Sherlock had refused to allow John to accompany him due to the menacing level of danger in this case. John conceded his anguish when Sherlock didn't answer his text messages and later, in desperation, telephone calls. Willing away all thoughts of peril, he finally dozed out of sheer fatigue, but his dreams were fractured.

John had snapped awake when Sherlock entered the flat. He stood up immediately, relieved, wincing at the cramp in his leg from sitting so awkwardly so long.

"You've solved it," he had stated. "You're all right, then?"

Sherlock had flopped on the sofa, removed his scarf and tossed it in the general direction of the closet. It landed on the chair nearest John. Sherlock leaned his head back. "Yes. It was the aluminum crutch, of all things, that led me to him. Dead give-away, I should have seen it sooner: it was manufactured several decades later than the other equipment in the medical antiquities museum. An ingenious weapon, and quite a singular affair! I'll tell you all about it, and no doubt you'll write it up for your blog, but I simply must have something to eat first. Four days without food or sleep ..."

His voice trailed away. John went into the kitchen, prepared tea and toast. When he returned, Sherlock had drifted asleep, still wearing his coat. John laid the tray on the coffee table and spotted the scarf on the chair. He acted without thinking: stretching out his hand to stroke the fibers. Impulsively he grabbed it in both hands, brought it to his face in a ball of blue softness. He inhaled; he couldn't stop himself. He had been weakened by the remains of protracted agony, hours of anxiety for his friend's well-being. He felt an urge to connect with this essential bit of Sherlock's mystique if only to affirm that his friend was alive, safe, home.

John held the scarf close as he went upstairs to his room. He laid on the bed, flat on his back, one hand clutching the comforting wool as he slept. This time, his dreams were placid.


	5. Chapter 5

5. Sherlock's Heart

In spare moments over the next week, Sherlock searched for the scarf: probing through the closet, shifting piles of books and papers, upending the sofa cushions, peering beneath the coffee table and chairs.

Sherlock was reduced to leaving the flat with only his coat and a bare neck exposed to the elements. He turned up his collar to deflect the wind, but the sensitive skin soon chapped pink from the cold. John felt twinges of guilt when Sherlock shivered against the chill, but he still could not bring himself to return the token to its owner. The scarf remained upstairs in his bedroom. He had carefully tucked it in a dresser drawer surrounded by his cable-knit jumpers. John had opened the drawer a few times, stared inside at the jumble of bulky knits and fine cashmere without really understanding why. He'd even tried it on once, doubling the length and looping the ends through, Sherlock-style, but it just wasn't as fashionable, as _alluring,_ as when Sherlock did it. He returned the scarf to the drawer.

They were spending a quiet evening at home, with Sherlock conducting a timed experiment involving butter and parsley regarding the Abernetty murder, and John tapping on his laptop keyboard. They worked in silence until Sherlock spoke.

"John. Come here, please. I require your assistance."

"All right." John set aside his laptop and crossed the room. "What is it?"

"I need to test a theory." Sherlock stood up, staring intently into John's eyes as if they were evidence under his microscope. "Yes, I definitely need you to proceed with this experiment."

"All right," John answered. He assumed it was about the depth of the parsley in the butter. "What would you have me do?"

"Kiss me."

Aghast, John yelped, "What?"

"You heard me perfectly well. I need you to kiss me in order to determine exactly how I feel about you. I seem to have developed romantic feelings for you, and as this is a condition I have never experienced before, I need to test my hypothesis. According to my research, most people first act on romantic feelings by kissing the object of their affection. Isn't this true?"

"Er, yes, but... it usually doesn't start with such a clinical... proposal."

"Then my technique is flawed. How would you suggest I proceed?"

"Well," John hesitated, still somewhat in shock. "Normally you would express your feelings in more... sentimental language. Tell the other person that you're attracted to him, describe how you feel when he's around, tell him what qualities you admire in him. Flirt a little, find reasons to touch him."

"Very well." Sherlock considered. "I am intrigued by your acceptance of my shortcomings when most people are driven away by them. I feel tense when you are near, and lost when you are not. Intrusive thoughts of you interfere with everything I do. I am no longer able to concentrate on tasks like my research and experiments. I must be attracted to you physically because I find myself wondering what you look and feel like without your clothes. And as for flirting..."

Sherlock deliberately placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"How was that? Have I convinced you of my amorous intentions?"

John drew a staggering breath. "Uh, no one's ever put it to me exactly that way, but for you, it's... downright passionate."

"Excellent. I am ready to proceed with the next step. May we kiss now?"

Instead of replying verbally, John leaned in until their lips made first contact. He kept it short and sweet so as not to overwhelm his restive quarry. However, in his effort to not overwhelm, he had underestimated. When John pulled away, Sherlock grasped John's upper arms and wordlessly demanded more. Their kiss lengthened and deepened until they broke for air.

"Yes, you have confirmed my hypothesis." Sherlock murmured, voice low and sultry. "Can I have my scarf back now?"


	6. Chapter 6

6. And the One He Gave Back

Thoroughly startled, John pulled away. "You know about...?"

"Of course I know," Sherlock answered, leaning forward to continue the embrace. He said softly, placing kisses along John's jaw towards his lips, "I saw how you kept looking at my uncovered neck whenever we were outside. The guilt was all over you; you might as well have held up a sign."

John was frozen with mortification.

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself. He pressed his mouth against John's, moving sensuously until he spoke again. "I do have other scarves, you know. But I enjoyed watching you stare at my neck. It was like you couldn't decide if you wanted to wrap the scarf around me or devour me. I did everything I could to encourage you to do the latter: precisely nine different maneuvers, in fact. When nothing worked I decided to take matters into my own hands. I believe the next step is to suggest that we retire to the bedroom?"

Later, after awkward unveiling, shy explorations, whispered pleas, and desperate shuddering cries, they held each other in darkness.

John extracted himself from the gangly white arms and legs, dropped a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, left the room. Minutes later he returned with a glass of water and one hand behind his back. After Sherlock drank the water and placed the empty glass on the nightstand, John revealed what he had been holding. He offered the blue scarf.

Sherlock laughed. "If you like it so much, why don't you keep it? I'm rather fond of the idea of our clothing mingling together in your dresser drawers."

"No thank you," John smiled, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew where he had stored it. He threaded the scarf around Sherlock's neck. "I like it better on you."

It wasn't the scarf that was so dear to him, John realized, but the person wearing it. He could happily return the one now that he had the other.


End file.
